Colgan climbed down from the jeep, the little old man darting in and out like an anxious child. Colgan moved toward the scattered tents, and children raced toward him on their own or were dragged by stern-faced women in khaki with rifles slung over their shoulders.

The men of the camp seemed to hang back, forming a ragged ring around the growing knot of women and children. Colgan nodded and patted the children on their heads like a man dispensing indulgences rather than medicine. When he reached the center of the camp, towering over the crowd, his white clothes gleaming in the morning sun, he turned and waved toward the medical supply truck. For a moment Bolan held his breath, waiting for a thunderbolt to be summoned by that long, shining arm.

"Maybe now you can begin to see my husband for what he is," Marisa said.

"I already do."

16

Bolan lay on the narrow cot, his arm folded under his head. The moist air smothered him, pressing on his chest like a layer of damp concrete. He had tried to sleep off and on for two hours.

His watch told him it was nearly three in the morning, but it made no difference.

In disgust he threw the light blanket off and let his legs dangle down over the edge of the metal frame. He leaned over and tugged on his boots.

Rubbing his hands on his thighs, he realised how tight he was. The muscles in his legs felt like metal bands. Getting to his feet with a weary sigh, he stretched his arms out as far as he could, then did a dozen deep knee-bends. His legs loosened up a little, but he could feel the tension sitting there in his gut like a ball of freshly smoked rubber.

He strapped on the AutoMag and walked to the door of the hut. Fitted with a simple screen door, it was bug tight and hot as an oven. Already he could feel a river of sweat coursing down his backbone. He listened to the night with one hand on the doorjamb. A small trickle of sweat ran down his bare forearm, beaded at his elbow, then dripped away.

Outside he could just see the corner hut at the right end of the compound. Just beyond, on the edge of the trees, a small glow told him a bored sentry was taking a smoke to ease the monotony. It always amazed him how predictable men could be. Left alone with the night, even men who had no interest in smoking reached for an open pack, if only to take a puff and crush the nearly whole cigarette under a boot heel. The coil of smoke, at least, moved. It made one feel a little less alone, as if the smoke might somehow be a companion until the next shift.

Deep in the jungle, something screamed. It was frightening, but not a scream of terror. More likely a predator, howling its frustration, was coping with the night in its own fashion. Idly Bolan pushed the screen door away with the toe of one boot. It swung open noiselessly, and almost like an automaton, he stepped out into the thick, hot air.

Stepping aside to let the screen door close behind him, he bumped it with a hip to make sure it shut tightly. Whatever else he accomplished, he didn't want to come back to a room full of mosquitoes. He walked out into the center of the green half-moon that echoed the curve of the line of huts.

Looking up, he saw stars brighter than any he'd seen in a long time. Only this far from the city were so many stars visible that one could keep counting them until morning.

A single dim rectangle of light spilled through one of the screen doors. Faintly orange, it came from a kerosene lamp. For purposes of saving fuel, the generator was shut down every night at nine.

The day was too insistent very early in the tropics, and no one had the need of electricity much after dark.

He started walking without knowing quite why. Colgan's hut, like the others, was dark. The camp was as quiet as an empty tomb. The cigarette across the compound was long since dark. Staring into the night, Bolan saw no trace of the sentry. Behind him someone moaned, probably having a bad dream.

The sound was barely human and sent a shiver up Bolan's spine. The chill lingered long after the sound faded away.

A shadow passed through the center of the light smear, and Bolan knit his brows. Who else, he wondered, would be up at this time of night? And why would they be in the prison hut?

Curious, he started toward the hut when he heard a strangled cry. It sounded as if it had been squeezed off before it really got going.

Bolan quickened his pace, checking to make sure the AutoMag was on his hip. The shadow passed through the wedge of light a second time as Bolan drew close.

He reached the door just as a second stillborn cry dribbled to a halt. Bolan leaned forward to peer into the hut, thinking perhaps one of the prisoners had taken sick. He grabbed the door, but it wouldn't open. That was normal, but something bothered him. There was still the matter of the light and the shadow.

Pressing his face against the oblong, barred window, he couldn't make anything out. Then he caught a whiff of something that made his stomach coil back in on itself. He thought for a moment he was going to gag. It was the unmistakable smell of flesh. Burning flesh.

"Anyone in there?" Bolan called.

No one answered, and he twisted himself around to try and squeeze a look, but the bars were just too close together. He noticed a single window, set in the wall directly opposite the door, and he sprinted around to the back of the hut. He wasn't afforded a better view there, but the smell was even stronger.

"Anyone there? What's going on?" He called more loudly this time, but still got no answer.

Bolan raced back to the front door, grabbed the bars and pulled. He propped himself against the door with his feet and put his entire weight behind the pull.

His muscles strained as he tried to use himself as a lever to pry the bars free. Twice he lifted himself off the ground and slammed his heels into the door, but the bars held.

He couldn't see the lock on the inside and didn't want to wake the entire camp, but he had to do something. What ever was happening inside was dreadful that much he suspected. Pounding his fist against the door, he heard it echo hollowly from inside, followed by a faint sound like a snicker. He called, and again he heard the snicker, like a kid laughing behind his hands when he's put one over on the teacher.

Bolan slammed a fist into the door in his anger, but it refused to budge. Feeling along the door's edge, he realised the design was less than perfect. The hinges, mounted with the pins facing out, were accessible. Using the butt of the AutoMag, Bolan rapped on the top pin. It resisted at first, then started to slide free, a quarter inch at a time.

Hearing footsteps, Bolan turned to see the sentry rushing toward him, rifle at an angle across his chest.

"What's going on?" the sentry asked.

"You tell me," Bolan said.

From inside, there was a sudden hiss, and the stench of burning flesh wafted through the open bars.

"Give me that," Bolan snapped, indicating the survival knife sheathed on the sentry's hip. The man looked puzzled, but Bolan ignored the look and snatched the knife from its sheath. Dropping to one knee, he pried the lower pin loose enough to get the fat edge of the blade under it. Using it like a crowbar, Bolan worked the knife up, slid it farther along, lifted again, then placed the fat edge flat against the pin, just under its head. He tugged up, and the pin shot free. He repeated the process on the second hinge, then snapped the already loosened pin out of the top hinge.

Again he grabbed the bars and pulled. This time, pivoting on the latch, the door swung open. Bolan pushed it aside, where it hung at a crazy angle. He stepped through the door into a wash of orange light. In one corner McRae sat on a chair, his eyes a little glazed, a bottle of Scotch in his lap.